FMA Cake
by Supey
Summary: Comes in slices. One-shots, anything FMA, both manga and anime.
1. calculator

**i don't think you're cute, i just want your calculator**

Alfons patted his trouser pockets, frowning. He stuck his hand into one, fingers searching, then checked his sleeve cuffs for good measure. You never knew!

He rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, using the right to rummage through a grungy-looking pile of papers, covered in equations too big even for his education and doodles of strange swirling circles - the kind of thing one might see inked on some foreign sailor's arm.

"Edward," he said loudly while scanning his companion's notes, leaning in to get a better look at the intricate curls that made up one particularly hypnotic array. "Edward, have you seen my tissue paper?"

A muffled sentence came from the other room, and Alfons sighed, straightening up and pacing across the wooden floor. He pushed the door open with his foot, leaning on the frame. "Have you seen my pack of tissue anywhere, Edward?"

Edward Elric, a pretty little thing with angry yellow eyes and fleshy latex limbs, was in about the same state of sanity as he'd ever be. He was drawing more of those circles in a notebook, making little marks along the edge of his pant leg every now and then. Okay, so he had his hobbies in between being a mad genius, avoiding human contact at all costs, and working on the rocket, but he could at least try not to behave like a _vagrant_ or something in the privacy of their own home. The only part of him that looked like it had been groomed in the past three days was his voluminous golden hair, and even Alfons couldn't tell if the sheen might not be pure grease.

But, as always, Edward Prosthetic-Armed Elric couldn't be anything but a smartass, cleanliness or no cleanliness. "Haven't seen it," he said beneath an accent, hardly looking up. "Find something else to wipe your butt with. There's a pile of old newspaper by the stairs."

"Ha ha," Alfons said, rolling his eyes. "Very funny. It's padding for the rockets we're setting off later." He sighed, crossing his arms and sinking deeper against the doorframe. "Sure you don't wanna come? Bet the kids'll scream if you take off your leg." He pretended to lean over and sniff at Edward's shoulder, making a face that the alchemist couldn't see anyway. "At the very least, get up and take a shower."

"I'll pass on the circus act," Edward replied, obviously in a no-humor zone for the day. After another groan from Alfons, he did stand up, however grudgingly, and agree to clean up. "And stop that," he said crossly as Alfons pinched the bridge of his nose and pretended to pass out at the steps.

Alfons laughed. Even with a stick-in-the-mud roommate, nothing could dampen his humor on a rocket-setting day.

Oh. Shoot. The rockets.

He went back to checking under books and between clothes lying limply about their rooms. Had to find the padding before Edward was finished cleaning up. Maybe if he saw the rocket, how nice it looked, he'd say yes and come to the launch. Alfons would like that. He'd like that a lot.


	2. rose lamp

**rose lamp**

_It was springtime, and happiness, and bare feet and smiles. It was a laugh and a skinned knee and a new puppy and a second mother. A fight in the yard, a terrible and hopeful creation of something from nothing (but not nothing, there was equivalent exchange, it just looked like magic, they said,) and she knew it'd be just the three of them together forever, exploring new worlds…_

Soft pink light seeping between folds of the lamp's cover cast a gentle glow across Edward's sleeping face. Winry watched his chest rise and fall for a minute, eyes tracing the line of his human arm, flopped over the side of the couch. Then, with an apologetic smile to Alphonse on the stool, she blew out the candle. It flickered and dimmed. Still, the room remained illuminated, this time by cool moonlight spreading from the open window.

Al straightened up; those moonbeams bounced off of his metal shell, spattering across the floor and the bits of skin and automail peeking out from beneath Ed's ever-so-slightly-short blanket. He made noise just sitting up like that, and he was aware of it; Winry could see the way he guided himself, careful in every little motion so as not to disturb his brother.

He looked to Winry, his tinny voice low, something as close to a whisper as he could manage in his echoing body. "He's been sleeping even more lately. I think-" and the faint glow in Al's eye sockets trailed to his right, to his brother, "-I think my body is putting a lot of strain on him from the other side of the Gate."

"Oh, Al," she said, eyes crinkling, the words nearly silent.

"I'm okay," he said, getting up sort of quickly and pulling a comforter from the top of the wardrobe – there, she saw it, putting his weight on the front of his boot, rolling his torso and arms at the same time so they didn't grind against each other. He tugged the thick blanket open over Ed, lowering it with his gentle giant's grace. Winry could all but _see_ the concentration in his eyes, the taut frown on his lips. He'd only take on that expression when Edward slept, she remembered. That was when he could really take care of his brother. His bolder, more volatile, smaller, more vulnerable, fierce older brother. Alphonse won in their sparring matches between the grasses, he made dinner when their mom wasn't doing as well, he picked up the letters from the neighbors who got mail in town, but he always, _always_ let Ed be the big brother.

"Is something wrong?" he said, and Winry's head sank a little. She jerked up, like she'd been dozing off in class or something.

"No, no," she replied, voice still low but trying to laugh in a convincingly reassuring manner. "You're just reminding me of…stuff."

He didn't say anything, but she could see the response in his glowing eyes.

They relaxed after that, watching Ed sleep together in silence – stomach and limbs for the most part bundled up at this point – and finally, when it was clear conversation didn't have to start up again and Winry's yawns became more frequent, they stood and left the room. Alphonse picked up the rose lamp as he exited, scanning the room one last time, and watching that his brother still breathed.

He pulled the door closed, and all was still.


	3. bananaphone

**phone…banana**

_Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring._

_Ring ring ring ring ring!_

"Mmhhh..."

_RING RING RING RING RING!_

An arm snaked out from between warm white sheets, hand splayed and searching for the phone's handle. Fingertips brushed against its curves and managed, somehow, to lock themselves in place around it.

What she meant to say was her name, maybe pose a question as to who was calling her early enough to rouse her from sweet afterglow slumber, but all that came out was a slurred, sleepy-sounding "Fhhtttt."

"Excuse me?" A playful, familiar tone, deep and smooth. She could just _see_ the cocky little smirk perched on his lips.

She cleared her throat. "What."

"Good morning, Lieutenant. Forget to set the alarm?"

That got her attention. Riza scooted Hayate's furry little butt out from where he'd been curled up against her side. He looked up at her in sleepy surprise as she scrabbled for the clock and sat up.

What the-

"It's nine o' clock, _Mustang,_" she growled into the mouthpiece. "I don't suppose you'd happen to know why my alarm is set for twelve?"

"Morning-after leave," he waved away, no doubt playing with the pens on his desk like he always did when not on a business call.

"I see." She slammed the receiver down, and turned to a half-buried Black Hayate (still holding out hope that his master would let him stay snuggled in bed all day,) scratching his head. "Who's an idiot?" she cooed softly. "Who's stupid, Hayate? That's right, he is."

Another twenty minutes found her in the office at HQ, straightening out files. The others were all out, and he'd mysteriously disappeared moments before she had arrived, according to a neighboring officer.

Her suspicions had just begun to wane when he popped in through the door, a bag on his right arm, a cup in his left hand and hardly any expression on his face, as if it were just another day on the job.

Roy's beverage-toting fist lifted, index finger popped out. What, was he saying hello or reciting an oath? "Hey."

She ignored him, snapping a folder back into place.

He visibly winced, but it didn't deter his flight path - straight to her. "I brought you something to eat," he said with a weak little smile, putting the bag and cup on the desk and pulling out breakfast foods; banana, banana, muffin, toast. "Breakfast mess is closed," he explained unnecessarily.

"Don't mess with my sleep schedule, Roy." _I carry a gun, Colonel._

Literally shook in his boots. And he hadn't even seen her _eyes_ yet, furious little beads of death. So, of course, he used the best defense he had.

"You seemed happy about it last night," with a crumbling sort of _oh_ snap, _oh shit_ inner monologue, the one that only showed up when he tempted fate like this. And it really was a matter of life or mortal injury, sometimes, in regards to Lieutenant Hawkeye's disposition.

Roy kept his gaze strictly focused on the coffee, maybe hoping that the rest of the world would disappear if he stared hard enough at this one small point of reference, and twitched at the sharp _smack!_ the sheaf of papers she'd been holding made as she put them down on the table. He flinched as she picked up the empty brown bag and crumpled it, threw it away, but he didn't move - that not-yet-resigned stillness of prey that knows it's screwed either way.

She picked up the banana, peeled it - and okay, maybe for about half a second he entertained the concept of watching her out of the corner of his eye (because that was the whole point of bringing the bananas in the first place, why else,) but fear for his life, or his manhood maybe, kept him sweating and staring at the coffee.

_Yeah, I'll give the guys easy jobs for the day, let her sleep in, bring breakfast - it'll be perfect!_

Right.

Who would shoot someone over getting _more_ sleep, anyway?

Riza was sipping at the coffee now, and he had followed his visual distraction as she picked it up, stumbling right into her eyes.

Frozen, he didn't even try to smile when she lowered the cup to face him, arms at her sides.

Was she going to hit him? Shoot him? _Did he have any chance of living long enough to become President?_

He was practically trembling into a little puddle of melted Mustang when her expression softened. She saluted, a little more casually than usual, squaring her shoulders and locking her feet together.

"Thank you for the food," she said, formal and dry. Like any normal day.

Snapped out of his paralysis, Roy made a dumbfounded little noise. A _That's all?_ kind of squeak.

"Riza," he ventured tentatively, not sure if it was safe to use her first name yet. "I- that is to say- _mmph_!"

The first part was his lame initial attempt at an apology. It had little chance of making it all the way, though, as his brain had failed to send good signals today.

The second part was his lame secondary attempt at an apology, interrupted by an obstruction to the mouth.

Oh wait.

That was _her_.

He remained surprised for about half a second, but it'd been a losing battle from the start. Came up for air once to get his bearings, then he dove back to her with energy, deepening the kiss. He gingerly wrapped his arms around her, and when she relaxed and moved in closer with an embrace of her own, they tightened.

Military uniform only _looked_ rigid and starched, because nothing could have felt softer against his chin right then than the cuff of her jacket. She traced his stubble-less cheek with her forefinger and thumb.

"What's that for?" he said with a smile at the focus on her face. He was feeling a little dizzy, a lot relieved, and loopy as Hayate with a tummy rub.

"You're never going to grow a beard," she said.

"I have better things to do," he replied. True, facial hair would probably help his career and gather more respect. But what did that matter when compared to the future standing right in front of him?

She kissed his cheek, then, squeezing his fingers. A smile peeked out from the corners of her mouth. "Do you say that to all the girls?"

"The only one I need is standing in front of me," Roy proclaimed grandly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face in one delicate motion, the one he'd been practicing for just a line, just a moment such as this, the animosity of earlier replaced with tenderness and a great warmth in his chest and a grin that wouldn't stay down, and the line was cheesy and the hair-touch was silly but he _needed_ to keep this going-

"...I see."

-he came crashing back to Earth. "What?"

"I need to finish my breakfast," Riza continued blandly, giving his chest one last pat before turning away.

Mustang blinked. "What?" _That's not the way it's supposed to go._

She smiled and pushed his arm away with hardly a touch. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I also have paperwork to take care of."

He still hadn't formed an adequate response by the time they got down to business... but, on the bright side, he was there for the second banana.

_This is a slightly edited version of a three-AM crackfest written for the darling folks at fm_alchemist on LJ _

_xoxo_


	4. shower

**shower**

Didn't seem anywhere near impossible, not yet, but even the Colonel's challenge couldn't keep him from wavering once in a while. It wasn't pain, really, he was dealing with that, it was the chair maybe or the look that Winry got whenever she watched them talking for too long, and everything was for Alphonse's sake, _I'm so sorry_, his as well, but he would lay awake, running the fingers he had left along the sheets and thinking maybe he couldn't do it maybe I used up my chance to cheat the truth.

It was a little more than half a month after - Mustang's visit - and Winry brought it up first, even though Granny Pinako had probably thought of it before and Al definitely did but wouldn't have said anything.

She stomped into the boys' dark room and stood in front of the wheelchair, hands on her hips. "Edward, when was the last time you had a shower?"

He shook his head. "Don't need to." His sentences had become exponentially shorter and more terse over the past few days.

Winry blinked skeptically at him. "You _need_ to clean yourself."

"Don't want to," he rectified, frowning.

"Come _on_. I've seen you naked before, Ed," Winry protested. "We took baths together when we were little. We go swimming all the time. I'll hold your hand if you want. What's the difference?"

He didn't know how exactly to tell her that it _was_ different, too different, that it'd probably be too much even if it were Mom standing in front of him. He shook his head again, lips a tight dam against whatever he wasn't able to say, squeezing his eyes shut.

One glance, and Winry eased up, like she always did by now. She prodded and coaxed him a little bit more after that, but she knew it'd already been denied and Edward's attention remained firmly fixed on his hand. It remained that way until she gave up with a frustrated growl and stomped out of the room, little fingers curled into exasperated fists.

Later, the armor spoke up from where it sat in the corner.

"Brother," he began cautiously, his tiny voice almost comical behind the grisly metal mask. Even now, nearly three weeks later, Ed tensed a little bit when it spoke to him. His mouth was a strained line, his eyes surrounded by little lines of their own and looking down, not meeting the glowing holes where Alphonse's should be.

"Brother," Al said, this time with a little more force. "I think Winry's right."

_Of course you do_, the sarcastic, sad, bitter little voice that was never ever allowed to reach Alphonse echoed in Ed's head.

"_Seriously_, Ed," the metal beast insisted.

_Seriously, Ed_, he mocked silently.

"Take care of yourself. Stop moping."

His head shot straight up. "I'm not _moping_!" he said, forgetting for a minute that Al wasn't in his own body.

"Yeah, you are!" If a soul in a piece of armor could glare daggers, that's exactly what Edward's brother was doing. "And it's making Pinako cranky and Winry depressed and it's getting on my nerves, Ed! All you do is stare into space and argue with Winry and have surgery, and it only stresses them out more to think that it's not working, you moron!"

For a minute there, he was speechless. But his tongue wasn't on the list of things he'd given up. "Yeah? Well, so what? What's there to be happy about, Al?" He slammed his fist on the chair handle, jolting his sore leg. "Does this look like a field of butterflies to you?"

"We're alive," Al said, standing up. Ed flinched involuntarily; the armor nearly filled the room. Alphonse crossed it in two strides and jammed a hard, empty glove finger into his chest. "We're _alive_, Ed, so get up and take care of yourself, 'cause M-mom isn't gonna." He stumbled over the word, and it broke Ed's heart for Al to say it aloud. His vision of Al's furious glowing eyes was a little bit hazy, and after another hair-raising half minute, the armor turned around, still tensed.

Al whirled to face him one last time, said in a forceful trying-too-hard tone, "We gotta look out for each other, Ed. Let us help you," and clomped to the wall.

He didn't say anything after Alphonse had sat back down, closer now. But when Winry came in with lunch and an automail meltdown story, he coughed quietly. "Uh, Winry..." he said, running his thumb against the chair arm again. "About that shower idea. I, um, I- well." He addressed a pebble on the floor. "It...might be a good thing. Y'know. To try."

His hand slipped on the wall and he reached out for the walker handle with an arm that no longer existed, his feet (foot) left the ground and he was _scared, Al, terrified, I didn't want to let you down again_ and he knew his head would hit the hard tile and maybe he'd just drown in the hot water or wake up with his brains bashed out and the worst part was that the sinking butterfly feeling didn't leave, not even when Winry caught him

Winry caught him?


	5. deck of cards

"Dorochet, you little punk, where'd you leave the cards?" The longest sentence he'd spoken all day.

"Haven't seen 'em," Dorochet called from across the dusk-foggy room, inconspicuously rubbing his ear with the heel of his hand. He lounged in a droopy armchair, and as his fingers came down past his chin to relax again, he put his feet up on the scuffed endtable. "Ask Greed, he's the one who's always hoarding shit in his room."

Loa grumbled in response, releasing the handle of the drawer he'd been shuffling through. His broad frame never seemed comfortable in their apartment above the Devil's Nest, and for all that his hands and face came alive for story-time in the company of friends, the tedious hours before bed were spent sulkily, eyebrows drawn together and stiff chin tight with a frown. Something about plain, grey-and-olive walls and furnishings, with only touches of color peeking out, frustrated him.

One slice – _whoosh_! All gone.

(Still, nothing could beat the smiles he did share, those loud and glowing nights when the four of them bet matchsticks.)

"I resent that, Dorochet," Greed drawled, entering, hair slick and a towel around his shoulders.

"It's true, man," Dorochet replied with a grin, leaning back. "You're like a freaking magpie."

"We're all family here," Greed said, waving his hand dismissively. "What's yours is mine and all that."

Dorochet laughed out loud.

He got up for a drink. Loa, irritated, halfheartedly glanced across the room and Greed whistled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Their canine companion returned not a moment later. He sat back down, this time on the sofa. Then he frowned, stood up, sat down again, put his feet up, dropped them back to the floor, leaned on one elbow and then the other, and finally settled for reclining in his original position, crossing his left leg over the right.

"Woof," Greed said, drawing a circle in the air with his finger and a smirk. He settled into the handsome armchair that Dorochet had occupied, knees wide, hand resting on the arm like lord of the keep.

(Dorochet made a face at him, but Greed knew the dog jokes were his favorite.)

The butcher went to work on that too. _Goodbye!_

"Can I ju-" Loa began, but the sound of heavy boots coming up the stairs interrupted him.

"Hey, Martel," Greed said. Dorochet craned his neck.

"Yo, Greed. I was out getting some stuff," she called from the hall, holding up a crinkling bag, stepping in.

She was always louder when they were alone, maybe to make up for all that necessary stealth in the outside world.

"And that punk from yesterday took our cards, so I bought a new deck," she said. Put them on the table.

"Are you challenging us?" Greed asked, smile wide. The lines above Loa's nose disappeared.

Splish, splash.

(_Just pawns._)

"You'd think I'd seen enough blood by now, right? Not to care."

Wrath didn't reply.

Greed closed his eyes. "Yeah. Me too."


	6. over time, it fades

For the first two weeks, he couldn't keep his hands still.

Running new fingerprints along his shirt, rolling fine hair between them, picking up knives and cups and plates just to weigh the warmth or smoothness or imperfections, the way he adjusted his grip were boxes too heavy or books shaped strangely. He gripped doorknobs and handles whenever they passed, wondering at the curves that fit so neatly into his palms, noting every nick and ding on the railings with a quiver in his chest. When they went out walking, he'd have a hand trailing beside him, always in contact with the nearest wall - damp brick or concrete or wire sending shivers down his arm. Even running his tongue along his teeth was an adventure. Tree bark churned under his thumb, an ocean of texture, soft leaves the cresting waves. When he slapped his hands together for a transmutation, he was acutely aware of the way their grooves disagreed, and it thrilled him.

By the third, he'd started to feel a little guilty about people accommodating this urge. Ed laughed, Winry kept smiling wide enough to squeeze a tear from behind her eye, and the Lieutenant subtly suggested if only her own charge were so enthusiastic.

His book of things to eat was an adventure in itself – the cover, bumpy with edges battered by travel, each page crumpled or creased differently, ink-filled grooves for letters. When he'd started the journal, he'd only thought about food and taste. That book, beads of shower water dripping from his chin and fingertips, Ed's hand or glove in his – they captivated him, amazed his brain, excited his cells.

But the best part, by far, was the kitten.

It came home with Winry, wrapped in a hat and small enough to cup in his hands. Ed made a few comments, but he agreed that it was only a matter of time. At least you won't kidnap strays every time we go out anymore, Al.

He smiled. Held the cat in his hands, downy autumn fur that he just wanted to pet and pet, maybe rub his cheek against. Wiry whiskers tickled his wrist and a heartbeat was clear against his palm, warm, alive and faster than his own or Ed's. The bottoms of its paws weren't tough yet, but smooth, thicker than its pelt. Baby needle claws danced on his leg when the kitty stretched and baby needle teeth played with his thumb.

Ed said he should name it Hohenheim because it's a lousy cat and it keeps sleeping in the sun on the couch, right in Ed's spot. Winry suggested Tiger for his fur or Sig for his rapid growth. (Or Yoki, even, but Ed and Al burst out laughing.) Ed added that it might as well be something fitting like Megadeath or Vicious Beast, but Al liked the idea of naming it after an old friend.  
He was scratching it under the chin, almost trembling himself with the sensation of his cat's purr beneath his fingers, and he figured it out with the insistent rub against his hand for scratches and pets to resume.

Winry and Ed agreed that Hughes fit, from glasses-and-beard-like stripes to obnoxious ploys for affection. So it stuck.

How…touching, was Roy's reaction, that time he and Riza visited the Rockbells'. Hughes didn't seem to pick up on the Colonel's sarcasm, though, happily settling himself in Roy's lap so the Flame Alchemist could keep scratching his head. I'm more of a dog person, he insisted, but the kitty couldn't get enough of leading and following Uncle Mustang around, and Roy never complained.

Over time, Al felt the muscles grow in Hughes' back, how the fur was thicker than his kitten coat but still soft as an angel's wing. The fresh new skin he'd returned to had grown its own wrinkles from use, tougher palms, soft, shaded, and weathered after almost a year of infant-like touches and tastes.

The doorknob was cool under the barely-discernible lines that made up his fingerprints, kitchen tiles smooth beneath bare feet with the barest scrape of earth he'd tracked in. Hughes materialized at the doorway, brushing his legs once.

The back of the chair was easy to grip. The table, lacquered pieces slid together, was the perfect place to rest his elbows.

"Hey," Ed said.

"Hey," he replied.

"Hungry?" His brother asked, gesturing lazily to a dish on the counter.

"You bet." Al smiled.

"Sorry we didn't wait - you were gone all afternoon."

"It's fine," Al said, loading a slice of quiche onto a plate. He took a bite and his eyes drifted skyward. "Mm. Oh, wow. This is _delicious_."

"I know, right?" Ed laughed. "No wonder it's at the top of the list."

Al laughed too. They'd tacked his foods-to-eat sheets between their beds like a to-do list of desserts and miscellaneous home cooking. It morphed into a favorite foods chart, with Gracia dishes taking top marks.

Al dug his tongue into the grooves on his molar to get at a fragment of spinach.

"Um, Ed," he said, reminded of those early days of rebirth. "When you got your arm back, did- were you really into- _touching_ things, too?" He found he couldn't remember what Ed had done with _his_ new hand, besides one attempt at extending nonexistent automail blades.

Ed smiled sheepishly. "Yeah," he admitted. "But you were way worse."

Tired of being left out, Hughes hopped up onto Al's lap and sniffed his food. Al delicately pulled him back, a hand around the cat's lean chest.

The little heart still beat faster, the fur still soft and pleasant against his skin. The stiff whiskers brushed against his eyebrow as he inhaled a quick snuggle.

Hughes wriggled in Al's grasp; the boy let his cat slide out and onto the floor. Licked his chest twice, prowled away.

Al turned back to his food and his brother's gentle smile. The fork rested between his fingers, an ordinary, beautiful tool.


	7. friendship

"Morning, moron," a high and shriveled-sounding voice greeted him.

"Mornin', Hum, uh, sorry, _Ho_munculus," Number 23 - right, Van, Van Hohenheim, that's what the little bugger called him, that's what he was supposed to be now - replied with a yawn, ignoring the snippy nicknames for once. He stepped around a few books and papers on the floor, maneuvered himself to where he could see the spouted flask on the desk. A grin materialized on the little inkblot's face as he came into view.

"You ready to learn some new letters today, sleepy? It'll be a real waste, since you'll probably forget everything by noon. The boss knocked over a pile of books on his way out last night. There was a rat chewing on the glue tube earlier, too."

Van swiped at the floor. It only needed a general clean; the mopping was every other morning. "Who're you calling sleepy, tiny?" he said, brushing spare hair out of his face while trying to keep hold of the broom. It clattered to the tile floor, and he was relieved the master wasn't there to catch him clumsy, half-asleep.

As he bent over to pick it up, Homunculus laughed. An airy but sinister little noise that carried the same playful scorn as everything he said. Van made a face at him, moving on before he managed to break something with the broom.

"If only I had an intellectual down here once in a while," Homunculus complained, bobbing in the flask. "You don't hear half the things I say. And you're scrawny, and uneducated. And you only own one shirt. That's social suicide in the Court, Van Hohenheim."

"Whatever," the slave replied from behind an armful of books. "At least I have legs, shrimpy."

The homunculus' smile grew even wider. "Let's see if you can learn to write that in a sentence, stupid student of mine."

They laughed.

They were still laughing together five years later, and ten, and then. Somewhere along the line he grew into a scholar, with a fine beard, finer fashion sense, and the strikes at his intelligence faded - but the little imp in the flask never lost his curling smirk.

Didn't realize it at first, too stunned by the sudden, absolute absence of sound and life and everything the world had been. But, stumbling down the stairs he had once walked barefoot, his eyes fell upon volume after volume. _Put this one away for master, study from that one, you should write a book, Van Hohenheim, let's have them shelve it here._

He _had_ been a real idiot, when he was younger. The insults that he took as teasing, the laughter that meant he'd said something clever, the smile that reminded him he had a friend - albeit a strange one - and suddenly a future, a name...

He slumped against the wall, slid to the floor until his knees almost touched his chin.

Hohenheim covered his eyes with his arm and smiled.

It was another fake one, though.


	8. tuberculosis

"_Mama, she looks so soft," he said, pressing fingers and nose against the glass, fogged now with his breath._

"Not today, my little one," she said, prying him away with a tug to the wrist. "We don't want to make Daddy's nose puff up and redden, do we?"

A pout rose to his face. "Daddy hasn't even been home_. He missed my seventh birthday."_

"That's enough_, Alfons,", her voice less sugar and more stern. "Now, say good-bye to the kitty and we can come back to visit next Sunday."_

His eyes became bigger and bluer by sheer force of will, to no avail; moments later he bid a reluctant farewell to the snow-white cat perched upon her cushion, and plodded home beside his mother, ensnared by the injustice of youth.

-

"Ed, look!"

His companion just buried his nose in his scarf, grumbling something about his fake leg and the cold.

A tug at his sleeve and suddenly he stood face-to-face with the beast, staring back through storefront windows with a similarly disgruntled expression. The cat's tail flicked; Edward groaned.

"Alfons, we're _not_ getting a stinking _cat_."

"Let's just go in and see how much-"

"No."

"Just _pet_ it, Edw-"

"_No_."

Alfons shoved his hands in his pockets. "You're no fun."

"Yeah, well."

The rest of the way home was trudged in silence.

-

…_It _is_ Christmas._

Edward found himself back again a day later, and he grasped the store's doorknob, sighing.

Behind him, a woman coughed.

_Cat hair._

His hand fell.


	9. almost all

"Hi.

I think the kid's gonna be born in the fall. That's good. We'll do pumpkins."

"Den had puppies today! They're really cute. I'll bring them out sometime."

"Wanted to visit. Al's gonna be back in three days."

"Hi. I was stopped on the street again today. I think they only recognize me if I'm wearing red. It's tough, sometimes, getting called a hero – you know what I mean, it's like part of me wants to explain why somebody else deserves the compliments and part of me doesn't want to crush any dreams. He asked me to transmute something. I said I would have, but I don't do alchemy anymore.

So this kid, he gets this look in his eyes like the sky's falling, and he tells me it's ok sorry t'have bugged you. And he called me sir, too, but that's a kid-sir, not the weird sir I get from old friends who work for Fuhrer Jerkoff. I felt really bad. Like, shit, I let down a little kid who thinks I'm a superhero!

That's what got me thinking. I know it's dumb, but I never realized being The Whatever Alchemist would mean alchemy is _me_. We only started reading the books to make up for Dad being gone. To impress-

And, well, then we wanted to use it to- And I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm so fu- so freaking sorry that we ever wanted anything bad enough to make that happen. I don't think I'll ever stop being sorry for it, even if I've thought about it enough to understand it.

After that, just a way to get our bodies back. I wasn't attached to it. It was how I'd help Al. Sometimes it seemed more important, but, well, it wasn't.

Plus, what we talked about doing - it was just constant grass-is-greener talk, and it took a hell of a lot of people before I knew there wasn't a way we could just magically make everything better. Alchemy was always a means to an end, but it took too much to realize it wasn't gonna bring the end I wanted. Not that it wasn't worth it in the end, but that's something I don't think people _get_, y'know? It wasn't like my arm got torn off. I never cried at night over not being able to transmute shit – sorry, not being able to transmute, and stuff, and it wasn't this great big part of my identity.

Alchemy hurts a lot of people. The truth _isn't_ some sick ghost that'll show you everything you want and then tear it away. It can't be. That place is a joke. I knew what was important, but I don't think everyone gets it – of course they don't, _I_ didn't really, not until it happened.

I just

I just wish people wouldn't apologize for something I don't miss.

Anyway. Winry's probably mad at me for not making dinner. It's getting late.

And, um, thanks, Mom."


	10. borrowed time

_Tenth August. Among all things, stragglers from the Fifth Laboratory. Just our luck that the Elric Brothers happened upon those grounds, too, but we will have to find a tie for that loose end without snipping out another possible sacrifice._

I requested Gluttony's assistance in order to bleach all evidence that much more thoroughly. Little did I suspect that my simple-minded brother would take an interest in preserving said evidence.

"Wrath," he squeaked, tugging at a limp, bloody arm. "I want to bring it home instead of eating."

"Father wouldn't be too pleased with your refusal to finish dinner, now, would he?"

He quivered in confusion. "But Lust is always with me. Tonight I don't have Lust. What if she wants – hungry?"

_I betrayed nothing when he asked it, but in truth it startled me. Gluttony showed… not a human emotion. Nothing like what my wife has. I doubt that he could comprehend those feelings. But it was something. Something I had not seen in my fellow homunculus before, however little we have previously interacted._

"A present for you," he twittered, letting it slide from between slick fingers and splat onto the floor.

"How…sweet," Lust said, gently lifting her foot out of the way.

"She's not hungry, Gluttony," our father croaked. "That is _your_ job." His voice was a whisper beneath dying eyes.

Gluttony's hand tugged at his mouth, beady gaze uncomprehending. "I _do_ like to crunch and swallow, I do," he said.

_Father watched us all, so I said nothing._


	11. aaaawkward

"You didn't put up this much of a fuss when I was with Mustang."

"This is _so_ far beyond the Mustang thing."

"Uh, besides your reaction, I'm not seeing the difference."

"For starters, at least when you were fucking Mustang you had _standards_!"

A snort.

"Yeah, apparently not. I just- ugh – I can't _believe_ you, Ed."

"Hey! I'm being straightforward!"

"After three years! And only because I – that is definitely _not_ the point. Or the problem." Alphonse Elric, face as red as the coat he continued to nick from his brother's closet, slammed two angry, non-alchemically charged palms down on the table such that it shook. Somewhere down the hall, an ornament teetered precariously close to death.

Then his arms relaxed – more that each muscle simultaneously gave up on supporting him through the tempest in his head – and he slumped onto the table, butt meeting chair with a dejected displacement of air. Face buried in his arms, he could hear Ed give a melodramatic sigh.

Without looking up, Al pointed a finger at his older brother. "You are _so_ gross," he whined. "Why. _Why._ Why? Ugh."

"Relax, Al," Ed said, keeping up his valiant effort at treating the whole damned situation like a weird joke. Either because he was finally being forced to confront the total _ew_-osity of his adventures in Munich, or because he actually didn't think it was a big deal. Al couldn't read minds, and wasn't sure he wanted to know which anyway. "Alfons wasn't _you_."

"He looks _exactly_ like me! That's even _worse_!" If he hadn't already survived puberty, Al would've positively squeaked, and as it was the emphasis lent a certain chalkboard feel to his desperate disgust. He waved his finger vaguely in the direction of the photograph Ed had pulled out.

That is to say, the photograph _he'd_ found in Ed's room while looking for his new boots that Ed kept wearing without asking permission, and then confronted Ed about, prompting Ed to pull it out.

"Smells like you too," Ed added thoughtfully.

"He smells like me too! Oh…ew, oh god. Please, please, _please_, brother, just _stop talking_."

"Where are you going?" Ed asked. The red coat fluttered into his lap like a scarlet letter.

"I am getting out of this incestuous excuse for an apartment and I am finding a nice seedy pier to drown my sorrows in," Al said matter-of-factly as he could. The door slammed shut in his wake.

He only made it around the corner when he collapsed in an alleyway and freaked out as quietly as possible into his sleeve.

"Ohhhh my god. Ohmygod. Ed. And a guy. Who looks like me. _Just_ like me. Smells like me too? He has the same _name_!"

He kind of wished he were a suit of armor again so he could not hyperventilate.

He also wished Ed were still with Roy. At least then he saw Lieutenant Hawkeye when Ed was busy being creepy.

"This is so _gross_!"


End file.
